The Gotham Times and the Farmer’s Almanac agreed that sunrise would occur
at 6:32. At 6:22, Raoul pushed his coffee cart into position at the
east side entrance to Robinson Park. At 6:25, he switched on the
heating element to boil water for that first pot. And at 6:29, as the
sky began to glow a hazy cherry gold, he remembered the fortune cookie.
He rummaged in his pocket, found the slip he’d kept from the previous
night’s kung pao, and tacked it to the side of his cart, right above the
price list. It read: Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one;
stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to.

For a man like Bruce Wayne, there was no experience quite like returning
to Gotham. The city had a quality like no other, an intensity, so many
people, so many lives, so much emotion, ambition, anxiety and vigor, packed
so densely into such a confined space. It produced something, an
energy that hung in the air, an essence of pure distilled humanity.

Whenever Bruce left Gotham, even for a short time, he felt the drop off.
Other cities, whatever their charms, felt dead to him. That aura of
charged human energy was so thin, almost non-existent. Arthur once
likened “surface life” to mountain climbing: if someone lived their whole
life in an oxygen tent and then climbed to the highest peak in Colorado.
They could live, they could function, they could even enjoy the view, but
they couldn’t help noticing the vacant thinness of the air. Each
breath adding to that vague sense of emptiness: something is missing.
That’s what life out of the water was like for Aquaman—and that was very
much what the world outside Gotham was for Bruce. Xanadu and the time
alone with Selina was fulfilling in other ways. But coming home to
Gotham was still coming home to Gotham. That palpable intensity
everywhere, pervading every building, every street, and every person.
To Bruce, it wasn’t a good vibration or a bad one, it simply was. It
was the norm, that powerful aura –GOTHAM– surrounding him on every side.

Bruce wasn’t conscious of the phenomenon, he merely walked, briskly, from
the coffee cart towards Wayne Enterprises, feeling pleasantly balanced,
centered, and energized as the excited buzz of the city pulsed around him.
Parking so far uptown was unusual for him and a trifle absurd. There was a
garage beneath Wayne Plaza reserved for Wayne employees. It was ridiculous
parking all the way up 59th Street just to stop at Raoul’s
“Kafe-Kart” for an espresso. But Bruce was feeling nostalgic. Returning to
Xanadu with Selina evoked memories, a flood of memories, good
memories—which was somewhat astonishing for Bruce, for whom remembering the
past was seldom a pleasant exercise.

So he had stopped at the cart just as he had that morning… that
morning. The woman from the stage of the Hijinx Playhouse, the woman
the program called Selina Kyle, the woman he knew from a thousand encounters
was the real Catwoman, lived in an apartment across from the park and that
cart. She regularly came down for a morning coffee; it was the one way
to approach her anonymously.

The woman the program called Selina Kyle… There was no reason to think
that was her real name (although she might be just brazen enough to use it)…
she still lived in the apartment she’d kept during the run of Cat-Tales, she
hadn’t moved or disappeared after the show closed. It was the one way
he could approach her anonymously and without a mask.

The woman the program called Selina Kyle… After the coffee, Bruce had
stopped and bought a newspaper while he waited. …The woman the program
called Selina Kyle… Batman too found himself calling her Selina in
their encounters since Cat-Tales, and she responded naturally enough.
She’d never corrected or discouraged it. So… Selina. Selina
Unknown, possibly-Kyle, likely but unconfirmed, still lived in the apartment
building across from the park and regularly came down to the cart for a
morning coffee. It was the one way Batman could approach her
anonymously and without a mask (for Batman, ‘anonymously’ meant without a
mask). And this needed to be anonymous; this needed to be Selina and
not Catwoman. He had to make that clear before opening that door.
If they were going to do this, then all parts of her life were open for—

If they were going to do this.

It was crazy. Every time since that first kiss, every time that
he’d considered the possibility, his saner, sensible self made him see
reason: It was weak, it compromised the Mission, it was allowing his desires
to override his judgment. Catwoman was a thief; none of that
had changed. Why was he suddenly standing there in his civilian
identity, sipping a coffee and waiting to slip a note in her purse?

What had happened? What had taken Catwoman from this very private
dream in a very private corner of his thoughts into the part of his mind
that dealt in hard, practical reality? He was really doing this.
He was standing there with a note in his pocket, having observed her
routine and devised a workable strategy for delivering it undetected.
He was delivering a note summoning her to a rendezvous with Batman that
served no purpose towards the Mission, no purpose whatsoever except to… to
get to know her better. Even as he was preparing to set his plan in
motion (with all the confidence and determination with which Batman
approached everything), a part of him couldn’t quite believe he was doing
it.

It was at that moment in the past, when his thoughts had twisted
themselves into this impossible logic knot, that Selina Kyle appeared from
under the canopy in front of her building, heading straight for the coffee
cart. In the present, the doorman stood alone at his post, fidgeting
like he wanted a cigarette. In the present, Bruce took a last sip of
coffee, and that most private corner of his mind, a corner he would never
fully admit existed, called his former self a jackass.

It was a short and pleasant walk to Wayne Enterprises. Bruce’s mood
was only slightly dimmed by the incident with the keycard…

This morning he’d awakened in an empty bed, no Selina beside him or
across the hall exercising in her suite. Alfred had brought a tray
with only one cup of coffee, one newspaper, no pastry. It was hard not
to think of the past when that was the norm. Downstairs in the dining
room, a loose-leaf sheet from a daily planner sat next to his plate, with
his appointments written out in Alfred’s meticulous handwriting—no similar
sheet rested across the table where Selina would sit. Alfred would not
suggest a dinner menu for Bruce’s approval; he would simply fix whatever he
thought best. Around 7 o’clock, he’d begin nagging Bruce to eat it and
would continue most nights until Batman left for patrol. It was the
old routine: No pastry on the breakfast tray, no menus, eating alone,
returning from patrol to an empty cave and an empty room and an empty bed…
It was hard not to think of the past when that was the norm. And
absorbed in those thoughts from the past, he’d fallen back into his old
habit with the keycard.

It was a holdover from the fop performance, fumbling absently with the
card in the reader. If he didn’t make a conscious effort now, he would
automatically run it through the wrong way—once, twice, then flip it to scan
properly and gain admittance to the executive floor. It came as a
shock when he’d first abandoned the fop act and discovered these lingering
habits. He was halfway through the old keycard routine before he even
realized it. Even now he was fidgeting with a pen in a similar
fashion, while Lucius briefed him on the week’s business.

None of it was news. Bruce had downloaded several Wayne Enterprises
and Wayne Foundation reports, as well as the Batcave logs, to Wayne One and
read over them on the flight home. He preferred being prepared for
catch-up meetings like this, and the one to follow with Nightwing.

Bruce checked his watch subtly… he would give WE another three hours of
his time, then Bruce Wayne would “go to lunch” and he could meet Dick in the
satellite cave.

“…other than Mrs. Ashton-Larraby,” Lucius was saying, “I was about to say
you owe me one there, Bruce; ‘the Ashton-Larraby experience’ was all you
said. But I see karma anticipated me. This last minute addition
to your schedule, a lunch meeting. Gail says the lady was quite—”

“No, no I can’t,” Bruce said, refocusing his attention hurriedly on
Lucius’s last words, “I… have a lunch appointment already.”

“This started out a good day,” Bruce spat as the elevator door opened
into the satellite cave.

Dick performed a gymnastic twist in his chair at the workstation to smile
a greeting at his mentor, then returned his attention to the computer where
he had been playing Sudoku on the giant screen.

“Hey Puzzlemuffin,” he noted, shutting down the game. “I figured
there was a development when you said to get down here an hour early.
Welcome back, by the way. What’s up?”

“You tell me. Was there a Black Canary incident you and Barbara are
keeping out of the logs?”

Dick raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve already read the logs,” he noted, shaking his head wearily.
“Jesus, Bruce, whatthe— Are you genetically incapable of leaving all this
behind for a few days without constantly checking in? Is it impossible
for you to separate yourself for a few measly days and take an
honest-to-god—dare I say it—vacation? Or do you have to ruin it for
yourself and everyone else by still being ‘on the job’ even when you’re not
on the job? I mean, really, Bruce, what’s the point of taking a break
in the first place if all you’re going to do is worry about what’s going on
or spend every ten minutes checking up on how things are going back here?
Or is that what this is about—you having to check up on me; you not
trusting me? Here I thought we were finally at a place where
you could leave town, go off to a nice tropical island somewhere and boink
your girlfriend like, y’know, a regular guy. But no, no, god forbid we
leave Dick in charge for a few days without checking up on things, he’s
probably let the city get overrun with giant hamsters or something.”

Bruce produced a severe Bat-glare—which was returned with one equally
fierce—and then he sighed.

“We are at that place,” he declared forcefully. “I did leave town.
I did leave it all behind for a few ‘measly’ days. I did leave you in
charge. I did ‘boink’ my girlfriend, as a matter of fact—and
incidentally she sent a package for Barbara that you’re supposed to take
home with you. And, Richard, I did not find it necessary
to check up on you. It’s a long flight back. I pulled your logs
and Lucius’s reports and read them on the plane. Do you think I
was ‘checking up’ on him too? Do you think I don’t trust Lucius Fox by
this point?”

Dick’s glare downshifted, but he didn’t speak.

“It wasn’t a question of trust. I prefer knowing as much as I can
before these catch-up briefings,” Bruce said, answering the question that
had only silently been asked. “Makes for a shorter meeting.”

“Well,” Dick sighed.

Bruce’s lip twitched.

“Puzzlemuffin,” he noted dryly.

“Oh man, that was an all-time low,” Dick grumbled lightly, defensiveness
forgotten and a trace of his old Robin persona taking its place. “I mean I
thought that time with Catwoman when my voice cracked was as weird as it could
get—and by the way, I still don’t accept ‘it’s just teenage hormones’ on that
one; that thing with the whip is vicious and a guy wants to, y’know, have
kids some day.”

“Dick, two things you might want to keep in mind,” Bruce said loosening
his tie as he settled in at the workstation, “First, I have heard all this
before.”

“The whip thing is vicious,” Dick repeated under his breath.

“Second,” Bruce went on firmly, “I just got back from an extended
vacation with the lady in question, and she sent your wife a care package,
so maybe you should just get over it about ‘the whip thing.’”

Dick stared in wonder. The words themselves, the idea expressed,
and even the manner was not that extraordinary, not coming from
anybody but Bruce. Even from Bruce, they weren’t that exceptional—now.
But at one time they would have been impossibly light, teasing… and human.

“Have you ‘gotten over it?’” Dick asked with a wry grin.

“I just got back from an extended vacation with the lady in question,”
Bruce repeated, a ‘between men’ undercurrent in his tone.

“Meow,” Dick noted dryly.

“So what’s the story with Black Canary?” Bruce asked in Batman’s gravel
as he rose from the chair and headed for the costume vault.

“I have no idea,” Dick replied, loud enough to be heard in the vault.
“There’s nothing in the logs because we officiallyhad nothing to do
with her while I was leading the team. I know she and Barbara had
words; Babs won’t tell me what was said or what it’s about. I figured
not really my business if it’s nothing to do with the team.”

“That’s ‘officially,’” Batman said, exiting the vault in full costume
apart from the cowl and gloves. “What about ‘unofficially?’”

“I don’t know, but she called my office first thing this morning and made
a lunch appointment with Bruce Wayne.”

“What a nerve,” Dick growled bitterly.

“She and the others are prohibited from using any Justice League
resources, including the communications network. The OraCom is
Barbara, and if she wanted to give you two a wide berth…”

“I guess,” Dick admitted.

“Dick, it’s up to you, but I think you should stay and be a part of this
conversation.”

He looked thoughtfully into the distance as he considered the idea.

“Yeah,” he said at last, thinking of the trapeze… You can’t climb a
ladder twenty feet into the darkness, reach out for that rope dangling from
the top of the tent, swing from that 1-1/2 inch of steel bar and then leap
out into nothing without knowing those arms will be there to catch you.
Bruce was someone you knew, absolutely knew, would catch you. Always.
And Dick would honor that by making sure he was always there for Bruce.
“Yeah,” he repeated, nodding with grim resolve, “I’ll stay.”

Not having access to the private Wayne Penthouse elevator, Dinah entered
the satellite cave as she and the others always did, through an underground
maintenance passage between the 48th and 46th Street
subway stations. She was discouraged but not completely surprised to
see that Dick was present, and also that Batman was in full costume.

“I see Mr. Richard had to make sure he talked to you first,” she observed
acidly.

“Catwoman was a thief, right? I know she’s a cat, no apologies and
all that crap, but she did steal, and that’s against the law and it hurt
people, right? That emerald necklace was all Mrs. Whoever had to
remember her beloved Grandmother Wilhelmina by, and now it’s gone and some
lowlife somewhere has his dirty fingers on her memory. And we’re all
fine with it. Because that’s not who Selina is anymore, right? A
person should be given the chance to set a new… damn… can’t think of the
word, I had it before when I rehearsed this.”

“Selina never pretended to be anything other than what she is,” Dick
said, firm and calm. “I don’t know about Batman, but the first time I
saw her, she was downright pissed—not that we accused her of stealing, but
that we implied she was stealing something cheap, pedestrian, and beneath
her talents. Yeah, she was a thief, Dinah; she not only admits that,
she owns it.”

“What I mean,” Dinah insisted, now switching her focus back and forth
between Batman and Dick, “is that who you were is not necessarily who you
are, or who you will be. You accept that she’s changed when she stole
for years. With me, this one thing, this one stupid mistake that was
years ago—”

“DON’T compare yourself to her!” Dick yelled. “This isn’t one
mistake years ago, you two-faced bitch. This is every day since then
that you pretended to be one of us: you pretended to be a big sister and a
hero crimefighter, you pretended to be part of this family, when you knew
what you’d done, you conniving, backstabbing traitor!”

“And how long am I supposed to pay for it, huh Dick?!”

“Well I don’t know, Dinah, how about we take how long you hung around
since it happened and multiply it by how long you WOULD HAVE GONE ON
keeping your guilty little secret if the truth hadn’t come out on its own!
How about that long for starters!”

“Enough,” Batman graveled with soft but insistent finality.

“Oh, here it comes,” Dinah exclaimed. “You let your attack dog call
me every name in the book, and now you come in all magnanimous like the
voice of reason, right? What is this, the ‘good cop/bad cop’ routine?
This isn’t some bad 80’s cop show, Bruce.”

“You’re not doing yourself any favors,” Batman observed. “That’s
twice now. First you go for the gut shot by invoking Selina’s name the
way you did, which I can only assume was a purposeful attempt to provoke me.
Then, when Nightwing was the one to respond, you shifted the crosshairs
toward me again instead of responding to him. Is this why you called
my office at dawn insisting on an appointment; you wanted to pick a fight?”

“I- What- No- I-”

Batman glared pitilessly.

“I wasn’t looking for a fight, but I was expecting to talk to you alone,”
she insisted, glaring daggers at Dick. Then she returned her attention
to Batman. “Ollie said I should confront you directly. He said they
all follow your lead anyway, so—”

“That’s bullshit on a stick,” Dick replied spitefully. “And you’re one to
talk about following leads. Do you always do what your precious
Ollie tells you, you traitorous—”

“Dick,” Batman growled at his former sidekick. “That’s enough.” He
half-nodded his head abruptly to the side, indicating that Dick should
leave.

“I’ll be up in the penthouse,” Dick replied flatly after a tense moment.

They waited in silence until the elevator doors closed behind Dick, then
Dinah smiled contemptuously.

“That was certainly an interesting display. Do you two practice
that routine or does it come natural?”

“Practice? Like that rehearsed diatribe about Catwoman you started
out with?” Batman intoned flatly without a hint of malice in his voice. “You
may think that your self-righteous indignation with Nightwing or any other
member of my team is justified, but when it comes to me, you lost that right
the moment you took that vote.”

Another tense silence passed between them, then he slowly reached up and
removed his cowl.

“Queen doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does,” he declared finally.
“He doesn’t know Gotham, and he certainly doesn’t understand any of us.
Your problem with Barbara you have to settle with Barbara; I can’t do
it for you.”

“And wouldn’t if you could,” she spat.

“No, that’s perfectly true,” Bruce answered, calmly refusing to be
baited. “I gave them all the choice to go on working with you or not
as they chose once they had all the facts.”

“They’re not ‘working’ with me. They rub it in every chance they get: out
of town assignments and all these subjects that nobody will talk about in
front of me because one thing leads to another and it’ll just remind
everyone, ‘til pretty soon you’re uncomfortable just saying good morning.”

“What did you expect?” Bruce asked. “Did you think if they chose to
work with you again it would all be the way it was before?”

“They shouldn’t have said they’d work with me if they didn’t mean it,”
Dinah insisted.

“If you’re getting assignments, they are working with you,” Bruce
pointed out.

“They don’t trust me,” she said bluntly.

“Of course not. Why would they?” came the equally blunt reply.

“You don’t trust me either,” she noted.

The Bat-intensity spiked suddenly, but the tone remained calm and direct.

“No. Why would I?”

“So what am I supposed to do?” she asked, hands on hips.

He stared at her for a moment. “Well, obviously being obstinate and
petulant hasn’t worked, so maybe it’s time for a different approach.”

She glared back at him, then dropped her hands to her sides. “I don’t
know what to do.”

“Start from the beginning,” he said simply, his manner—had she but known
it—similar to that in which he’d first trained Dick.

“How am I supposed to work with people that won’t trust me?” Dinah asked,
complaint still in her voice, but a note of sincerity finally emerging
underneath the question.

“You can’t. You have to earn back our trust.”

Nightwing’s words from Dinah’s dream echoed back in her ears: I was
taught how to live in this life, taught by the best. There was no
more grievance behind her next question, only genuine curiosity.

“And how am I supposed to do that, Bruce?”

“The same way you did it the first time… only harder.”

“I don’t know what that means,” she said wearily.

“Back in the early days of the League, back in your early days in the
Justice Society, you didn’t want to be accepted only because of your
mother’s accomplishments. You wanted to earn that trust on your own.
But the only way to do that was to work with those people that didn’t trust
you. You’ve done it before; do it again.”

“But it’s completely different this time.”

“Of course it is. This time, you don’t have a blank slate. You’re not
starting from zero. You have debt to work off first. It’s the same process;
but it’ll be harder this time.”

She sighed. She looked close to tears.

“That’s pretty much what Ollie said,” she murmured.

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

“He should know,” he noted.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Dinah asked archly.

“Only that, since the issue is trust, your own situation with Oliver
might offer more insight than I—or anyone else—can give you.”

Dick had never lived in the Wayne Penthouse as he had the manor. He
never spent much time there except for a brief period when he attended
Hudson U, when he used it as a quieter alternative to the dorm (with a well
stocked refrigerator). He hadn’t seen the penthouse since the night of
his bachelor party, and he walked around it now noting a number of small
changes: paintings had new frames, some hung in different locations, there
were new throw pillows, different knickknacks, a spray of silk flowers,
and—almost as a signature on these alterations—a cocktail shaker that
Barbara had given Selina as a thank you for being a bridesmaid at their
wedding.

The elevator pinged discreetly and Dick waited, expecting to hear Bruce’s
heavy tread on the marble floor of the foyer. Instead he heard a
light, feminine step, and he tensed; Dinah walked in, and he glared.

“Knock, knock,” she said with sarcastic cheer.

“Why don’t you give it up?” Dick asked without animosity. “You’re
finished here. You’ve wrecked it. Stop thinking some magical
heart-to-heart conversation is going to make it all better.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“I know that now,” she said frankly. “I know it was unrealistic to
think there was any kind of shortcut or quick fix. Come to think of
it, a quick easy fix is the way this started, with Dr. Light and all.”

“You really want to be bringing that up?” Dick asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do. I’m done running from it, Dick. As hard as it is,
for me and everybody else, I’m done being afraid of the subject. What
we did was wrong. Most of us admit that now. I know that’s not
enough for you. It is a start. We, all of us that were a part of
the mindwipe, have to somehow come to grips with—”

“I don’t care about ‘all of you,’ or ‘most of you,’ Dinah. You were
the one standing next to her at our wedding. You were the one with her
the night before too; she told me about that, the crying jag, her last
minute doubts. She told me you drove her to the OB/GYN that day after
the shooting too, when she found out she couldn’t have children. So
don’t stand there and say ‘all of us that were a part of the mindwipe.’
I don’t give a rat’s ass about Hawkman or Atom or your precious Ollie.
It was you she trusted, and through all of it you knew what you’d done to
Bruce.”

Dinah blinked away a tear, said nothing for a long moment, then took a
deep breath and spoke.

“Ollie cheated on me seven times that I know about. I’m sure there
were more; I just don’t know the particulars. I stayed, and then I
left, and then I went back—knowing in my heart it would all end in tears—and
it did. He cheated again and I left again, around and around. So
you see, Dick, I do understand a little that no pretty speech at this point
will make it all better. I’ve been on the receiving end too. I
know nothing I can say will make me someone that didn’t do what I’ve done.

“Ollie cheats, so he’s a cheater; he could and probably will cheat again.
It isn’t because he doesn’t care about me. Underneath it all he loves
me and he’ll always love me. But he cheats—because that’s who he is.

“I’m someone who voted to mindwipe Bruce. I stood there while it
happened, and in all the years since, I said nothing, did nothing. I
am sorry, Dick, sorry it hurts you and that it hurts Barbara. That is
part of who I am.”

“Do you want me to say that underneath it all, Barbara loves you and
always will?”

She shook her head.

“You don’t need to say it. I know that she does. I know this
hurt her, and that my behavior the past few months made it worse. And
I know that under all that anger and frustration and pain she still cares
about me the same way I still care about Ollie, in spite of everything.”

She nodded, picked up the cocktail shaker, and ran her finger around the
sealed rim.

“I don’t drink much so I use mine as a bud vase,” she remarked.
“Dick, I know the only way to rebuild a relationship is with time and effort
on both sides. I can do what Ollie does, give Barbara some time,
gently remind her now and then that I’m still here, but leave her alone
until she’s ready to let me back into her life. I can do that here,
working to get all of you to accept me again, or I can go back
to Star City and see if I can learn to trust Ollie again.”

“See, that’s the part I don’t get,” Dick stated bluntly. “Why would
you go back to that when you know it’ll only end up… No, never mind. I know
why. It’s like you said: Ollie’s the cheater, that’s just who he is.
And you’re the one who takes him back time and again. Because that’s
who you are.”

Dinah nodded slowly but said nothing.

“But you have to know by now that Barbara’s not like that. She’s
not just going to accept you back like nothing ever happened.”

“No?” Dinah questioned. “She did with you.”

“With me? What are you…”

“Huntress.”

Dick glared at her, barely containing the explosion behind his eyes.
“You know, for someone who’s trying to get back into my good graces, you’re
certainly hitting all the wrong buttons.”

“Maybe so,” she replied levelly. “But that still doesn’t change the
fact that Barbara did eventually accept you again, even after what happened
with Helena. I know her better than you think, Dick.”

“…”

“…”

“I know her better,” Dick said meaningfully. “And it took us a long
time get to a place where we were comfortable enough to even think about a
relationship again. And even now, it’s not the same as it was before.
To this day, I still notice that hint of distain and sadness in her voice
when she says Helena’s name. Those divisions will always be between us.”

“And I know things will never really be the same between her and me
either. But I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make her trust me
again. Just like you did.”

“It took me years, living on my own in Bludhaven…”

“Which is why I’m choosing Star City—not because I don’t value my
friendship with Barbara or because I think it’s hopeless here in Gotham, but
simply because a little physical distance might help. And, there’s a
better reward in Star City if I succeed.”

Dick inadvertently grunted, and then, disliking the sound, he enveloped
it in a cough.

“Seems like a reasonable decision,” he said politely.

“I figured you’d like it. Gets me out of your life, out of your
field of vision… and out of his city.”

“Actually, it wasn’t the aggrieved son talking but the contented husband.
I do think it’s better for everybody if you leave Gotham. But I also
agree that a ‘good relationship,’ maybe even a happy marriage, is the bigger
carrot if you can pull it off.”

“I’ll come over tonight if I may, explain to Barbara.”

“Fair enough. I’ll be going out early, patrolling with Cassie these
days.”

“Then I’ll say goodbye now.”

She offered her hand, Dick looked at it for a moment before shaking it.
She held the handshake and stared directly into his eyes.

“Dick, I’m sorry. I really am.” She finally released his hand before
adding, “For everything.”

He nodded tersely.

She attempted a weak smile. “I hope we can bury the hatchet, work
together again one day.”

“The hatchet, sure. Working together, I doubt it.”

Barbara had opened her “care package” from Selina, laid out the contents
on the table—and reminded herself sharply that this was not a puzzle clue
from a theme criminal but a present from a friend. A number of
presents, actually, for the box contained three pairs of sunglasses, a
purple leather jacket, a belt with a large square buckle, and a packet of
bath salts.

She had amused herself looking for the sunglasses on the Internet, and
located them in the online catalogue for a prestigious Gotham department
store. She was just comparing the picture on the screen to the pair in
her hand when Black Canary arrived. Their greeting was tense and
awkward, and Dinah began to wonder how she would possibly get through this…
when her nervous jittering took her eyes past her friend’s shoulder to the
contents of the computer screen behind her.

“$200!” she gasped. “$200 for sunglasses; Barbara, are you
crazy? That’s—Wow, I didn’t even know they made ‘em like that.
Since when do you shop at Bergdorf’s?”

“The jacket,” Barbara added, “despite being purple leather and a Roberto
Cavalli, is a zip-up and now strikes her as too similar to the black catsuit
horror in the Post. Ditto the belt with a big square buckle, that
one’s Gucci… Gotta admit, the lady has taste.”

“It’s an ill-wind,” Barbara remarked, trying on a pair and examining her
reflection in the computer screen.

“What exactly happened to her anyway? All I heard was some kind of…
anomaly?”

“Details are sketchy,” Barbara answered. “From what I gather, Wayne
Manor was ground zero for some sort of severe cross-dimensional instability.
And for some reason Selina had to enter a kind of alternate reality to stop
it. The ‘alternate’ part involved a costume not that different from
the thing in the Gotham Post, and she’s quite spectacularly unhappy about
that. Hence the getaway with Bruce, bath salts from Xanadu, and
divesting herself of all worldly goods even vaguely resembling the Gotham
Post Cat.”

“I don’t know,” Barbara said candidly. “Bruce told Dick and me what
I’ve told you—with the stipulation that it is considered
Arcanum-confidential, on level with secret identities and access to the
Batcave confidential.”

Dinah whistled.

“Something sure went down then.”

“Yeah,” Barbara agreed. “Superman and Batman both sealed the
file—independent triple encryptions—can only be unlocked with the passwords
transmitted from the Batcave and the Fortress of Solitudesimultaneously, they’re that serious.”

“Wow,” Dinah shook her head. Both women were silent for a moment,
then Dinah looked up and met her friend’s eyes for a tense count of five.

“Does this have anything to do with Zee losing her powers?” she asked
pointedly.

Barbara turned her head thoughtfully, then answered just as pointedly.

“I don’t know.”

“If you did, would you tell me?”

Barbara studied her friend.

“It’s okay, Babs. You can tell me, straight up, if the answer is
‘no, no way in hell would I trust a backstabbing traitor like you with intel
like that.’”

Barbara answered with a sad blink-nod.

“Superman and Batman sealed the file,” she repeated. “If any of you
don’t like that, I’d say, given the history, you can lump it.”

“Fair enough,” Dinah said, preparing to go. “I don’t know if Dick
told you, I’m going back to Star City. It’s time for a fresh start,
and I’d rather do it there with Ollie.”

“Good. It’ll be good for both of you, I’m sure,” Barbara said
politely. “I hope it works out this time.”

“Yeah,” Dinah said.

“Yeah,” Barbara answered.

“This is it, then,” Dinah noted.

“Yes,” Barbara answered.

“Yes,” Dinah echoed.

After another strained moment, she sprang forward and enveloped her
friend in a long, warm hug.

“Be well, Barbara,” she whispered.

“You too, Dinah.”

Dinah turned to leave, then paused and turned back.

“Barbara, I… I’m…” she began weakly.

“Don’t,” Barbara cut her off. “I know, Dinah. I know. Go to Star City.
And make that man behave this time.”

Dinah nodded and moved toward the window. Barbara called after her.

“Wait! Honey, for heaven sake, I don’t need three sets of
sunglasses. Take this pair, souvenir of Gotham. Catwoman’s very
own they’re-not-goggles-damnit designer sunglasses.”

“Just as well,” Dinah noted, heading out the window. “It’d just give
Ollie an aneurysm.”

Alfred brought a laden tray down to the Batcave, and with the reserve of
a well-trained butler, hid his despair at finding Master Bruce already in
costume standing before a hologram map of the city, marking off points with
a lightpen. The At-Large list was open on the workstation monitor and
the giant screen that loomed over the cave.

“Just put it on the table, Alfred,” he mentioned casually.

“Dare one hope, sir, that Master Dick’s performance in tending to
crimefighting concerns in your absence was such that you might abandon your
hologram for a few moments and attend to the meal I have prepared.”

“Scarecrow is still at large,” Batman muttered. “So is Nigma, but
there are no clues pending that would indicate he’s active at the moment.”

“The steak sandwich is open-faced, and the butternut dumplings—served
with brown butter, parmesan, and sage, sir—as well as the green salad
require the use of utensils.”

“Nightwing is working with Batgirl; he thinks it would do her good to
pursue the Scarecrow case. He’s probably right, after toxin exposure,
it’s wise to ‘get back on the horse’ quickly. I would have liked to
talk to her myself though.”

“I had expected, you see, to be serving in the dining room.”

“What?” Bruce said, turning from the hologram to study his butler just as
intently.

“Your dinner, sir. I fear it is not as ‘portable’ as you are
accustomed to when eating in the cave. I think you will find it
worthwhile to come away from the lightmap, sit down, and eat it properly.”

“I’ll get to it… shortly,” Bruce declared firmly.

“Of course, sir,” Alfred said mildly.

Bruce returned his attention to the hologram, then began speaking more
conversationally.

“Dick planned to check up on Bludhaven tonight, but evidently he can’t
because of patrolling with Batgirl… One of those bets, Robin and
Batgirl, here we go again. So if Nightwing goes to ‘Haven, she goes
along and Robin won’t be able to deliver her ice cream at the end of the
night. Dick feels it’s worthwhile to give them that time together.”

“You don’t approve, sir?”

Bruce considered this, walked over the tray and picked a bite of steak
off the sandwich with his fingers. Ignoring Alfred’s fierce glare of
disapproval, he considered it further while he chewed.

“It’s fine,” he decided at last. “It’s good for Cassie to have some
kind of normal relationships.”

“Agreed, sir, and yet you hesitated?”

Bruce helped himself to another bite of steak.

“There’s a fine line between accommodating a teenage flirtation and
taking an intrusive interest in personal matters that have nothing to do
with crimefighting,” he said. “One of Dick’s log entries regarding
Azrael was—well, I’d suspect it was a joke if he didn’t know better than to
play pranks with the logs.”

“Indeed, sir. I would add that, were Master Dick to indulge in such
pranks, surely Mr. Valley would not be his chosen subject.”

“No,” Bruce agreed, selecting a dumpling.

Alfred picked the fork and napkin off the tray, polished the one with the
other, and then pointed it fixedly at Bruce like a surgical nurse presenting
a scalpel. Bruce glanced at it, took it, and savagely pierced several
leaves of lettuce in the salad.

“Were there any other developments of note in Master Dick’s report, sir?”

“Harley Quinn’s taken up with a new player, the Monarch of Menace.
No details apart from the security footage from the bank they hit.
It’s definitely not the old Monarch, moves like a younger man. I’ll
check out the crime scene personally between patrols.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Oddly enough, the most alarming item came from Lucius Fox’s report, not
Nightwing’s: Mrs. Ashton-Larraby organizing a fundraiser for the Wayne
Foundation. She has yet to decide her ‘theme.’”

“The words ‘Mrs. Ashton-Larraby’ and ‘theme’ are a fright all by
themselves, Alfred.”

Alfred coughed discreetly by way of agreement. Bruce hurriedly ate
another few forkfuls of the dumplings and then finished the sandwich, while
Alfred hid his incredulous joy in the amount of food being consumed in
relation to the amount of urging that preceded it. He busied himself
tidying workstation 2, where Master Dick had worked in Bruce’s absence.
Noting the purple wallpaper, he introduced the one remaining topic of
conversation he had prepared, thinking he would have to spend a full hour at
least lingering in the Batcave persuading Bruce to eat.

“I do hope Miss Selina is enjoying the accommodations at the Xanadu
resort, sir?”

Bruce’s lip twitched. “She is. She’s picked out a number of facials
and spa treatments, particularly the ones that emphasize cleansing and
purifying after her ‘exposure’ to ‘the goggle-horror.’”

“I was under the impression that it was not her physical body, if I might
so phrase it, sir, that crossed into the other dimension. That is, I
had thought she merely occupied the form of each alternate dimension’s
Catwoman?”

“It’s feline logic, Alfred, you can’t argue with it,” Bruce pointed out
wearily. “She says it’s the principle of the thing, and as long as it
makes her feel better, what does it matter.”

“A wise philosophy, sir. One hopes you also took advantage of the
opportunity to relax and enjoy yourself?”

A far away look overtook Bruce’s features. After a long, silent
moment of this, he grunted.

“One should take that as a ‘yes?’” Alfred asked archly.

“It was very strange,” Bruce said, his voice distant, as if he was
talking to himself more than answering Alfred. “So much has happened
since then. All I could think as the plane was landing was how we
hadn’t even taken the masks off when we went there the first time. She
was so quiet when got to the bungalow. I’m sure she was thinking of it
too. I know she needed the getaway after all that dimension-hopping.
It messes with your head, all those possibilities: if I’d said this or
hadn’t gone there, how would my life be different now? In retrospect,
Xanadu was probably not the best place to take her in that state of mind.
We should have gone somewhere new, not… not anywhere with that kind of
history for us.”

“Sir,” Alfred asked carefully. “Is Miss Selina… quite alright?”

“She’ll be fine when she gets home,” Bruce said with determined zeal.
“We’ll plan something special,” he added, leaving the remains of the salad
and hurriedly gulping a bottle of water. “Some kind of homecoming, see
what you can come up with, Alfred, make it up to her for the whole magic,
alternate timelines, and Gotham Post-goggles mess.”

Alfred blinked.

“I confess, sir, I am somewhat at a loss as to what I might ‘come up
with’ to compensate for inter-dimensional anomalies involving the garb of a
lurid tabloid’s limited and rather demeaning portrayal of a great lady.”

Bruce reached for his gloves and cowl, and put them on as he spoke.

“Just look at where we were before I took her to Xanadu the first time,
where we are now, keep in mind that—Alfred, keep in mind that it’s mostly
her doing—and see what you can come up with.”

With a butler’s reserved control, Alfred’s expression did not betray any
emotion. He merely nodded, once, somewhat curtly as he said “Very
good, sir.”

Now fully costumed, Batman headed for the Batmobile, then he stopped and
sharply turned back.

“Say that again,” he graveled in the deep Bat-voice with which he seldom
addressed his butler. “Alfred, say that again, about the tabloid.”

“I merely observed, sir, that the Gotham Post’s depiction of Miss Selina
has been an ongoing source of annoyance and disappointment for her, and
being forced into contact with the trappings of that image—”

“That’s it,” Batman said, a cunning, calculating smile creasing his
lips—a frightfully unnerving phenomenon almost never seen in the cowl.
“That’s a very good idea.”